Kayo Dot: Plastic Houses and Empty Rooms

Kayo Dot started showing up on my radar last spring on the casual suggestion of a reader who was a fan of their earlier “avant-metal” work. Then the eye-catching album art for the their upcoming release started inexplicably appearing on my feed, followed by previews that described evocative “Twin Peaks” atmospheres. These and other subtle suggestions continued until eventually, without even hearing a note, Plastic House at Base of Sky superseded Radiohead’s A Moon Shaped Pool as my most anticipated release this summer as we revved up to move out of Austin.

I submitted to the chaos of impenetrable cross-town traffic for the last time, and Plastic House at Base of Sky revealed itself to be an engaging example of what happens when an experimental metal group decides to hang up growling vocals and blast beats in lieu of apocalyptic anime soundscapes. Using synth textures that recall the heyday of the DX-7, it blurs the lines between guitar and keyboard like Beat-era King Crimson while unapologetically bringing contemporary technique to bear on old-school Simmons electric drum sounds.



Unlike the sleek elegance of 80s King Crimson, however, Plastic House at Base of Sky allows the density of Zappa’s synclavier experiments to collide with the chanting, gothic vocal approach of Toby Driver in a shoegazey smog. In its thicker moments, this texture teeters on cacophony, which imbues its more focused moments with meaning and power. While I am not sure if I totally buy into the “Twin Peaks” comparison, there is a dark, haunting quality to the album that might evoke David Lynch’s unsettling visual approach.

While I will not miss the traffic in Austin, I will definitely miss our house on the hill. Although I knew that leaving would be hard, the move out of the house ended up being more haunting and unsettling than I anticipated. After the movers were gone, I became acutely aware that it would be the last day that I will ever see the inside of that house. I felt my gut sink.

P’s room was particularly heartbreaking. EJ’s room had been a guest room since we moved in, and had only recently evolved into “the nursery” since she was born. P’s room, however, had always been just hers. It was the place that she grew from infancy to a full-fledged member of our team and, more recently, into a big sister. It’s pink accent wall, faux chandelier, white furniture, and Minnie Mouse trundle bed came to reflect her emerging personality.

As I stood in the empty room, these hidden memories the came out to play. I realized that I was not only saying goodbye to the space, but also to the infant that she was when we moved in. I had to go outside and I did not go back. That was it.



Then the next day, very quietly so as not to wake her and the rest of my family, I left my parent’s house in Austin at 5:30 AM with the dog as my navigator to embark on our new life in Denton. It seemed like the person who wrote about the events that led to us building and moving into our house on the hill four years ago was very far away, and I was stepping into a haze of uncertainty. Out of all this chaos, however, I am convinced that our new life will emerge with greater power and meaning. As for P, her new room will undoubtedly reflect the young lady she will become as she enters kindergarten - a person that will blossom from the child she was in our the little house on the hill.